


Krampusnacht

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Bottom Roadhog | Mako Rutledge, Consensual Kink, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fingerfucking, Krampus AU, Krampus Junkrat, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sex Toys, Spanking, Trans Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, Trans Mako Rutledge, consensual monster fucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: Mako's having a rough holiday season, but it starts looking up when he meets a horned creature who calls himself Krampus and makes it his business to wreak havoc one night a year.(The Junk-Krampus AU I've been working on for ages and am finally posting.)





	1. Chapter 1

Mako hates the holiday season.

He loved it when he was a kid, loved visiting his kuia and cooking with her, opening gifts and then running down to the beach under the summer sun. Then she’d died, and they’d moved, and then moved again, and somewhere along the way he’d grown up and now he’s here, in this frostbitten heap of a country, and he hates it. He hates the cold, and the crowds, and the obnoxious commercialism of it all.

Most of all, he hates his seasonal job.

With the snow and the ice comes a lack of his usual outdoor work, and with that comes the inevitable temp work. Last year he took a job as a barista, preparing coffee and cocoa for harried, demanding customers. This year…

He sighs and adjusts his scratchy false beard, the tinny jingle of the bell on his hat ringing annoyingly in his ears. The cheap fabric of the Santa suit provided by the mall is hot and itchy, and he’s been vomited on twice since his last break. To say nothing of the batshit, neurotic parents who want their little darlings’ photo with Santa to be absolutely perfect and will scream and threaten lawsuit if it isn’t.

_Get through the day_ , he reminds himself, _Get through the day and you’ll be set for ages_.

Three hours of snot and tears and damp, soggy diapers plopped onto his leg later and the mall finally closes. Mako shucks his stinking, crappy suit in the employee lockers rooms behind the food court, clocks out, and, as far as the mall’s security is concerned, leaves for the night.

It’s surprisingly easy to disappear in this mall, even after hours, especially for Mako, who’s had a whole lifetime of being too visible to practice vanishing. He slips into the blind spots of the cameras and makes for the jewelry store. He knows the setup already— three guards, one usually seated outside the toy store, the other two supposedly on rounds through the mall, but Mako knows they’ll be screwing on one of the cots in storage. It’s easy to get behind the lone guard’s chair without him noticing, knock him out with a quick blow to the back of the head with his pistol.

It’s just gone midnight and he’s busily filling a pillowcase with diamond necklaces and pearl earrings when there’s a strange sound behind him, a kind of muffled, subsonic implosion that makes his ears pop and his teeth hurt. He spins around in surprise, expecting to see another security guard or the flashing lights of a triggered alarm system. All he’s met with is the dark stillness of the shop, the shadowy outlines of display cases undisturbed. There’s a smell, though— an acrid tang of smoke and sulfur that stands out against the mall’s usual background of mixed perfumes. He immediately begins looking for the source; if the smoke reaches the fire detector it’ll be just as bad as tripping the burglar alarm.

There’s another sound, an eerie, high-pitched cackle that echoes through the shop. Mako’s instantly on alert, hand on his gun as he scans the unlit space for intruders. A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye has him spinning and aiming the barrel, sighting on— nothing. Empty space.

Another motion, shadow blurring into shadow, and another peal of manic laughter. Mako’s neck twinges from whipping so fast, trying to follow the blur of darkness as it darts around him tauntingly. His hand is steady even as his heart jackhammers. He catches a glimpse of glowing orange amidst the shadows, something that sparks, and then it’s gone again, moving faster than his eyes can follow.

“Well well well well well!” The voice cackles, echoes bouncing around the room wildly. “Whatever do we have ‘ere?”

Mako snarls in response and lashes out with his other arm toward the noise, the pillowcase heavy with jewelry striking something solid with a satisfying thud.

Apparently the intruder wasn’t expecting that; there’s a muffled curse and the sound of breaking glass as something topples into one of the display cases. Mako winces at that; now he has to get out of here before the cops— he’s fairly certain that whoever this is, they’re not a cop— show up.

He’s halfway across the room to the door when something barrels into him from behind with enough force to knock him onto the floor. That’s unusual enough to stun him for a split second, during which the stranger clambers onto his back and presses something wickedly sharp and curved to his throat.

“Right.” There’s a lot less cackle in that voice now, more frustration and growl. “That’s enough of that.”

Mako rolls, feeling the edge of whatever’s pressed to his throat nick his skin, and fires a single shot up at the thing pinning him. It reels back with a yowl and he’s up and running, out the door without a glance back.

His boots thud and squeak loudly against the tiles of the mall hallway, his lungs burning in his chest. He ducks into the parking garage, leans up against the wall to catch his breath. He presses the back of his hand to his throat to feel the stinging cut there. Thankfully it’s not deep. He breathes a sigh of relief.

A giggle reverberates through the garage.

Mako spins, cold sweat on the back of his neck, and feels the rush of air behind him as whatever-it-is just barely misses him. He swipes out with his elbow and feels hair, scrabbling claws, and then there’s a crack as he sends his attacker flying into the concrete wall.

He stumbles forward, putting space between them before he turns to get a proper look at this thing. The garage is well-lit, and he almost wishes it wasn’t when he sees the creature.

It’s slumped against the wall, cradling its head in both hands as it hisses curses at him. It’s gangly, probably almost as tall as Mako when it stands, and covered in hair or fur that starts white-blond at the top of its head and becomes coal-black as it spreads down the wiry body. Both limbs on its right side give way suddenly to dark, jointed metal that ends in sharp claws on the hand and a cloven hoof on the leg. It has long, tufted ears and appears to be wearing nothing but a chain around its waist from which hangs a rough burlap sack. Even more disturbing than its apparent nudity is the fact that there are two curved horns sprouting from its head and what looks like a cow tail flicking angrily against the floor.

“What the fuck,” he says, for lack of a better response.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate,” the monster groans, still rubbing its head. “Got quite a throwin’ arm on ya, huh?”

Mako aims his pistol at the creature’s chest, staring in growing horror at the spot he _knows_ he shot back in the shop which is now completely healed. “What the _fuck_ ,” he says again.

The creature doesn’t answer him, shakes its head like it’s clearing away the cobwebs and then launches itself at him with a growl. He fires again, catching the thing in the shoulder this time, grabs it by the arm and uses its momentum to sling it away from himself. It goes skidding across the floor with a painful yelp and crashes into a parked car.

“Crikey,” it grunts as it sits up. “I’ve dealt with some rough customers before but ain’t any of ‘em been able to chuck me around like that.” It presses the palm of its metal hand to the bullet wound and when it pulls away the skin has sealed shut, no sign of bleeding or even a scar.

Mako takes aim at the creature’s head, which feels quite pointless but is something of a comforting action. “What the hell are you?” He snaps.

The thing grins at him, revealing a mouthful of sharp teeth. Its eyes are vividly orange and faintly glowing, and he realizes the tips of its ears, hair and horns are all smoldering and smoking like embers. “I’m Krampus.”

Mako frowns. The name is familiar. “That’s the… that’s that Christmas demon thing, right? The anti-Santa or something?”

The grin drops right off its- his?- face. “Not a demon,” he says rather sulkily, crossing both arms over his chest and leaning back against the bonnet of the car. “That’s a Christianity thing. ‘M a Pagan spirit.”

“Okay,” Mako concedes, a little weirded out at having apparently offended a ‘Pagan spirit’. “You wanna tell me why the fuck you’re attacking me?”

The creature shrugs irritably. “Punishin’ the wicked. Kinda the whole Krampus deal. You do bad shit on Krampusnacht, you run the risk of gettin’ got.”

That makes Mako arch a brow in disbelief. “I find it a little hard to buy that I’m the only one doing something bad enough to get… Krampused.”

That gets a burst of laughter, that wild staccato sound somewhere between hyena and kookaburra. “‘Krampused’, I like that! Eheheh… Yeah, okay, y’got me— I’m _a_ krampus, not _the_ Krampus. Used to be human, a long damn time ago. Got- heheh, got ‘Krampused’, y’might say.” He giggles again, much less menacing now.

Mako thumbs back the hammer on his pistol once more in an effort to remind the weird gremlin that this is not a friendly chat. “So what exactly does ‘punishing the wicked’ entail?”

The creature sighs, looking put-out once more. “S’posed to drag you to Hel,” he mutters huffily.

“Okay, uh…” Mako clears his throat, thinking _Wow, I’m really being very calm about this situation_. “How do I make that… not happen?”

The krampus snorts and reaches into the burlap bag to withdraw a slender but sturdy-looking birch branch. “In the old days, you woulda given me an offering of fermented fruit and I’d’ve just swatted you on the arse with this,” he waves the branch around listlessly. “And then I’d be on me way.”

Mako sucks in a breath. He’s brave enough to admit he’s got a bit of a monster kink; he always liked Beauty and the Beast as a kid and he was maybe a tad too fascinated by the orcs in Lord of the Rings. He’s also not exactly opposed to being… swatted. “We could, um. We could do that. If you’d like.”

The creature’s bushy brows shoot up in surprise. “Come again?”

“Well,” he can feel his face going red but he does his best to appear cool and collected. “You could… come back to my flat, and have some uh… fermented fruit in the form of alcohol, and then we could do the other thing. In my bedroom, preferably,” he adds for clarification.

The krampus’ facial expression is sort of frozen for a moment, and then his eyes narrow. “This is a- a really, really weird trick.”

“It’s not,” Mako assures him, and then, slowly, he flips the safety back on and tucks his gun back into its holster.

Those blazing orange eyes dart back and forth, resting briefly on Mako’s face and then sliding down his body. He swallows loudly. Then he takes a step forward, metal hoof clanking against the concrete floor, his tail lashing behind him. There’s a set of small bells tied to the tufted end of that tail, more like sturdy cowbells than the delicate silver ones that decorate the holiday, and they clink together hollowly. Mako keeps himself still, his heart pounding once more, as the creature approaches.

When he gets close enough, the krampus reaches out— still looking rather wary— with his flesh hand and brushes his clawed fingertips over Mako’s lips with a touch as light and fleeting as a moth’s wing. Mako resists the urge to follow those fingers with his tongue as he feels the familiar, tingling ache of submissive anticipation building in the back of his skull. Instead he lets his eyelids lower, bites his lip and watches as the pupils of the creature’s eyes expand and the glowing tips of his ears and horns give off an excited swirl of sparks.

“I’m parked right over there,” Mako offers, nodding toward his bike.

“Okay,” the krampus breathes.


	2. Chapter 2

The ride from the mall to his flat usually takes him about twenty minutes; tonight he makes it in five. The krampus clings to his back the whole way, claws scratching him lightly through his coat and tail flowing behind them in the wind.

His place is decently-sized; he rationalizes the higher rent by reminding himself that this way he’s not constantly bumping into the ceiling and doorways or getting stuck between the wall and his furniture like he was in his last place. The krampus seems fascinated by his home, scuttling around the living room and poking at everything from the lamp in the corner to the television on the wall, his hoof scuffing the wooden floor. Mako stops him from prodding a metal finger into an outlet but otherwise doesn’t mind the exploration, keeping an eye on him as he steps into the kitchenette to set out two glasses.

“Schnapps okay?”

The creature nods, still looking curiously at his surroundings. He accepts the glass and, after circling the furniture, perches gargoyle-like on the arm of the sofa to drink it. Mako chuckles and takes a seat in his battered armchair, cradling his own drink and trying not to stare at his guest’s toned, lean legs as he pictures them straddling him.

“Do you have a name?” He asks suddenly. “Like, something I could call you other than ‘a krampus’?”

The creature blinks owlishly at him, tail twitching in surprise, then drops his gaze almost shyly. “Guess you could call me Jamison. Or Jamie. Been a while since I’ve been called those names.”

Mako nods, licks his lips thoughtfully but doesn’t repeat them back just yet, or ask the other question that comes to mind, which is ‘Why have you got an Australian accent?’. Instead he knocks back his drink and sets the glass aside before standing and gesturing to the closed bedroom door. “D’you uh…?”

Jamison straightens to attention, bells clanging as his tail lashes, and his face splits into that wicked twist of a grin. He, too, finishes his drink and places the glass next to Mako’s before hopping down from his seat. He bounds toward the door, then comes screeching to a halt and turns to look at Mako over his shoulder, hesitant. “Oi, if you— if you want to stop— if it gets too much, like…”

“I’ll say stop,” Mako says, slightly surprised at the question and amused at the bizarreness of explaining safewords to a mythical creature. “Or I’ll tap you twice on the thigh, if I can’t speak.”

Jamison nods, smiling once more, and pushes open the bedroom door. Mako follows him in, switches on the light and leans against the wall briefly to watch his companion’s perusal of the room. The horned creature pokes at the California king-sized mattress with one long finger, then leaps onto it to bounce up and down a few times. He looks so thrilled that Mako laughs aloud and steps forward.

“Do you wanna take those off?” he asks, gesturing to the mechanical limbs. “They might pinch.”

“Believe me, mate, I’d love to.” Jamison raps the knuckles of his right arm against the side of his cloven leg, producing a hollow clang. “Can’t, though. Bound with iron. Part of the whole gig.”

Mako frowns slightly, imagining the discomfort that might cause, but is suddenly and thoroughly distracted by the sound and sight of Jamison reaching down and slowly drawing the chain from around his waist. He lets it dangle from his fingertips before dropping it into a softly clinking pile on the bed, the burlap bag nestled on top.

“Well,” he says with a wry smirk, “That’s me in me altogether. Now it’s your turn.”

Mako feels himself flush as he tugs his shirt free of his belt. His fingers seem too big as he undoes the buttons, lets the shirttails hang open over his bare belly. He’s going slowly, a bit unsure, and he fumbles when he hears a soft noise from the bed. He glances up, bare-chested and fly down, to see Jamison propped up on one elbow, legs spread. His orange eyes are fixed on Mako’s naked, tattooed torso, and his left hand is between his thighs, massaging circles against the pink nub there as it plumps with blood. There’s an immediate answering throb between his own legs, arousal flooding him, and his fingers scratch over his zipper as he strips the rest of the way down and stands naked.

He hears Jamison shift on the bed, hears him take a breath. Mako’s not looking at him yet, still staring down at the pile of clothes at his feet.

He’s quite proud of his fat, post-t dick, proud of its size and how responsive it is, but he doesn’t often show it off to people. He feels a little jittery, being on display like this, and when he gets nervous he gets quiet. He stands there, eyes down, biting his lip and feeling the tips of his ears burn. He hears the soft rustle of sheets, the pad-pad-pad of Jamison’s foot and the thunk-thunk-thunk of his hoof as he circles him, feels the brush of his tail against one thigh.

“Hooley dooley, you’re a prime specimen, ain’tcha?” He giggles, running the tip of a claw up Mako’s spine and making him straighten, goosebumps rising in the wake of that touch. There’s a pause, another little chuckle from the front this time. “Cute tattoo.” One finger pokes playfully at his bellybutton, the nose of the inked pig. “Sweet little piggy.” The words make Mako shiver head to toe, and that gets a hum of what sounds like approval. “Mm. Let’s see you bend over, hands on the bed, eh?”

Mako nods, not ready to speak yet, and slowly places both palms on the edge of the mattress. The touch returns, this time soft fingertips running gently across his hip. “Strong silent type, hm?” He shifts closer, leans over to murmur, “Or maybe you’re feelin’ a little shy?”

Mako swallows hard, nods again, his eyes shut tight.

Jamison hums softly, and the fingertips glide up and down, soothing and exciting in one. “No worries.” His other hand joins the first, cool iron tracing a line up his belly to the firm muscles of Mako’s arms and squeezing appreciatively. “These’re nice,” he comments. The touch moves away, traveling toward his chest. There’s a soft _clink_ as metal meets metal, and the krampus lets out a low chuckle of delight, tweaking the rings that pierce Mako’s nipples and making him gasp. “And these.” He strokes back down with his right hand, keeping the touch light so that his claws don’t catch as he draws circles and spirals against Mako’s skin. Before he can focus too much on that, the hand on his chest moves once more, cupping and massaging, clever fingers tugging his nipples into hardness. The iron talons drag through Mako’s pubes, leaving tingling trails tantalizingly close to his groin, and they both groan simultaneously at the sensation.

Jamison teases the tip of a claw against Mako’s cock, a tiny pinpoint of contact that has his head spinning and his breath bursting out in a harsh exhalation. Jamie makes a sound of immense satisfaction. “Lovely,” he says, and Mako wants to bury his face in the bed to hide his sudden blush, how pink and pleased he’s gone at the compliment.

“Ready?” Jamison asks, and Mako is already nodding before he finishes the question.

Usually he has to ease his way into the headspace, a slow, calculated descent. Somehow all it’s taken is a few touches, a few words from this creature, and he’s nearly dizzy with desire, with eagerness. When the touch withdraws fully, he opens his eyes just in time to see that metal hand sliding the birch branch from the bag next to him. He licks his dry lips and slowly turns his head.

The krampus is standing right behind him, wide-legged and straight-backed, imposing. As he watches, the thin, willowy branch thickens and broadens into a sturdy birch paddle, smooth and lacquered, with a blunt, rounded handle. Jamison runs the tip of a claw along the edge of it, looking smug.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and his voice has a new tone to it, a smoother edge of menace that, rather ironically, wasn’t there when he was trying to hunt Mako down earlier.

The first blow is light, testing the waters, striking the thick padding of his rump with just enough force to sting. He breathes in slow and steady, lets it out, feels it catch in his throat when the paddle lands again with a little more force on his thigh. Jamison’s warm left hand settles gently at the small of his back, rubbing comfortingly in perfect contrast to the next blow, which comes with a resounding _smack_ and makes Mako arch deliciously.

The bells on his tail jingle just before each blow, and soon Mako is panting in time with the sound, his muscles straining to keep himself spread. Jamison doesn’t quite fall into a steady rhythm; he keeps changing his pace, keeps the paddle landing new places. He’s uncannily good at finding the sensitive places at the insides of Mako’s thighs, the spots that make him squeal and curl his toes against the rug. 

He’s shuddering, stifling whimpers, his thighs trembling with the effort of holding still as he buries his flushed face in the sheets. He hears the jangle of the bells, tenses in delicious anticipation for the next strike— which doesn’t come. Instead, two hands grip his backside in a firm, unyielding hold, and before he can open his mouth to gasp there’s a hot wet slither of tongue between his cheeks.

It’s such a filthy, raw sensation that he can’t even get proper words out; all he can do is grunt and snuffle into the bedding, little animal sounds that escape him as Jamie eats him greedily. The krampus’s tongue is inhumanly long, twisting against his taint and pressing slick and slimy against his asshole until it’s curling inside him. Mako bucks back toward the sensation, feeling the heat from Jamison’s hair and the rough brush of his horns along his stinging rear, feeling the scratch of claws and hearing the scrape of iron. It’s that moment of dizzying realization— _I’m fucking a monster, I’m fucking a monster I’m fucking I’m fuck fuck oh fuck oh holy fuck_ — that he becomes aware of the fact that he’s wetter than he can ever remember being, that he’s right on the verge of coming already.

Jamison pulls back and Mako feels like he could cry, so close only to be denied. There’s a muffled noise, Jamison wiping his mouth, and then cool, hard fingertips find their way across his chest once more, twisting sharply and drawing a ragged moan from him. Teeth drag along his sweating, goosebumped shoulder blade and that sinister, smokey voice fills his ear again. “Feelin’ a little less shy now, hmm?”

Mako nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All that smut and not even a single orgasm yet. Damn.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Something hard and smooth brushes along the crease between his ass and thigh, moving inward and making him whimper as it glides over his sensitive skin, and he tries to focus enough to determine what it could be— it dips in closer, close enough to drag through the sodden mess between his legs and he bursts out with a frantic, “Oh fuck, oh god oh _fuck me_ -“ as he realizes what it is: the handle of the paddle, warmed by Jamison’s palm, nudging teasingly at his hole. He wants it, tries to spread his legs even further, tries to rut back onto the rounded end of it, but when he moves, it withdraws and he’s rewarded with a sharp smack from the other end, right below each cheek in quick succession. He cries out, clenches and feels a thick string of slick drip down his thigh to the floor between his feet. He’s so close still, he could come so easily, if Jamie would just touch him, give him something. He squirms, resisting the urge to squeeze his legs together and rub, and gets another smack on the meat of his right ass cheek.

“Be still,” Jamison scolds, grin obvious in his voice.

Mako gasps for breath, whimpering, but he manages to keep himself braced against the mattress. His shuddery noises get higher and higher-pitched as the blunt handle returns to trace a slow circle against his taint, pressing harder and softer to light up nerve endings from the outside in. It’s torture not to rock his hips back, even as the handle dips down once more and slowly, finally, eases into him. It’s just the right size; he’s always preferred smaller to larger, and most of his personal toys are no bigger than his own thumb. The handle glides in easily, the end of it sliding against his g-spot. He rubs his cheek against the sheets and moans, low and guttural and half-crazed with arousal as he’s filled. Jamie places his right palm against Mako’s ass, the metal blissfully cool against his burning skin.

“Good,” he praises, crooning sweetly in Mako’s ear for a brief moment before he starts moving.

He starts shallow, quick little thrusts in and out while Mako pants and trembles and tries to catch his breath. Mako sucks air through slack lips, makes a tiny, needy noise, and then he’s gripping the bedding with both white-knuckled hands as Jamison speeds up. He’s letting out helpless, hiccuping whines and pleas while the handle fucks him with a devastating rhythm.

“Oh- god- oh fu- fuck- _fuck_!” He chokes out, seizing around the handle as he comes almost immediately, hears Jamie growl a viciously pleased laugh over the thrumming of his heart, but the pace doesn’t slow for a second and he realizes they’re nowhere near done. He can feel Jamison’s knuckles wrapped around the paddle brush against him, grinding in deep and staying there as he keeps up the steady pulses, and now the metal hand moves from its hold on his ass to creep forward. Sharp talons tickle across his hip, pinpricks of cool iron bright against the background of overwhelming, molten heat, and when he feels them tweak his swollen, throbbing dick he all but screams as a second orgasm whirls through him. Jamie laughs again, wild and wicked, and his sharp hips rut against Mako’s thigh for just a moment, like he can’t help himself. He squeezes Mako’s cock between two fingertips, careful of his claws, and the pumping of the handle slows. It’s withdrawn, and he honestly can’t decide if that’s a mercy or a cruelty.

Jamie drops the paddle, and it hits the floor with a wet thud. He’s still gently teasing between Mako’s legs, toying with him until he’s squirming and whimpering, on the edge again already and incoherent with the relentless rush of pleasure. Just like the handle, the touch is suddenly removed, and he groans in hoarse, helpless protest.

“Roll over,” Jamie says, his own voice raspy and rough. “Let’s see that pretty face.”

He turns over and has just enough time to wince at the sting of the sheets against his tender rump before Jamison is clambering up the bed to straddle him, settling over his hips with just enough weight to let him feel the heat radiating from between those mismatched legs. Mako whines, gasps sharply when clever fingers tug at his nipples at the same time Jamie grinds down, dragging slick and smoldering heat against his own. He tries to rut up into the soft wetness as it rubs against him, but just as quickly it’s withdrawn, trailing a shiny line of slick across his shaking thigh. Jamie leans back, left palm braced on Mako’s stomach and right still squeezing and toying with his nipples, and grins down at him.

“Something you wanted?” He asks, rocking slowly, teasingly.

Mako draws a shaky breath, trying to make his tongue work properly. “Please,” he manages.

The grin only grows, showing off every sharp tooth in that vicious mouth. “I dunno. I think you’ve been awfully naughty. You might have to ask a little prettier than that.” He gives another good, hard grind as he speaks, the swollen nub of his arousal rubbing just under Mako’s cock.

Mako’s hands flinch, automatically trying to reach up and grab hold of Jamie’s skinny waist, to get a firm grip and fuck up against him until he comes, but he knows that will get him in trouble and he manages to stop himself. He’s good, he can behave himself, he can do it.

The movement seems to have caught Jamison’s attention; he’s eyeing Mako’s white-knuckled hands with great interest, his tongue caught between his sharp teeth. He reaches down, still rocking his hips absently, and takes hold of Mako’s left wrist, turning it over so that it lays palm up, fingers twitching, on the sheets.

“Mm, big ol’ sausage fingers,” he says appreciatively. “Think I’ll have me one of them.”

Delicately, he uncurls Mako’s middle finger. With a lithe, sinuous motion, he lifts up and shifts over on the bed, trailing his tail along Mako’s belly as he goes. He sinks down and Mako moans shakily at the silky soft heat of him.

Jamie rocks back and forth on the finger inside him, grinding himself against the broad palm. He grunts softly under his breath with every motion, biting his lip with his sharp fangs and letting his eyes roll back in his head. The flaming tips of his hair and horns glow like a demonic halo behind him, and the juxtaposition of monstrous features and the sweetly blissful look on his face is like something out of Mako’s dreams.

He can’t take it; he whimpers out a desperate, “Please, oh fuck, please.”

Jamison slows, looking down at him. “Please? Please what?”

“Please let me.”

“Let you what? Let you fuck me?” He grinds down in a slow, sensual motion, slick dripping into Mako’s palm. “Let you come?”

Mako whines, aching, tingling all over and gasping in time with the throb between his legs. “Anything, anything you want, I’ll- I’ll do anything—“

“Anything?” Jamison shifts, lifts off of the finger inside him and slides up to kneel, hovering over Mako’s chest. He tsks and sits back a bit when Mako tries to lean forward and nuzzle at his crotch, catches him by a handful of damp silver hair and asks, “Will you be good?”

Mako tries to nod, winces at the unrelenting grip on his hair. “I will,” he promises, frantic. “I’ll be good, I can be good, please let me— please let me be your good boy, please.”

The grip on his hair falters, slackens, and he has the chance to look up into Jamison’s face. The creature seems surprised, his eyes wide and his lips half-parted. “My good boy,” he repeats, softly.

Mako sobs at the words, too far gone to care what words leave his mouth. “Yours, your good boy, please, please, Jamie.”

Those orange eyes go dark and smoldering as the pupils expand, and the smokey tips of his hair burst into flame. Quick as lightning, he scoots backward and mounts Mako, settles onto his hips and reaches down with his left hand. Skinny fingers find Mako’s thick, swollen cock and guide it just an inch or two and as he grinds down again and suddenly he’s inside Jamie.

His shocked gasp turns into a quivering moan at the sensation; he’s not quite big enough to slide in deep but the sight of Jamison riding him, the feel of him clenching around him, it’s all so overwhelmingly, dizzyingly erotic and he hasn’t felt this good in forever and he wants— he wants—

“Please, I—“ He chokes on his words as Jamie rocks back and forth, tries again: “Please, I need—“

Jamie coos sympathetically. “Need to come?” He grinds down and squeezes around him, and Mako is nearly in tears with the effort of speaking when his brain is overloading with pleasure.

“I- I-“ He stammers, hips jolting up in time with Jamie’s. “Let me touch you, please, I need it.”

This time it’s Jamison who moans like he can’t help himself, his steady rhythm faltering slightly. His fingers rub tender circles over Mako’s belly as he takes a breath. “You can touch me,” he says soothingly, picking up his movements again.

Mako releases his death grip on the sheets and brings his shaking hands up, setting the left at the jut of Jamie’s hip and sliding the right down his lean torso. He presses the pad of his thumb to the swell of Jamie’s sex, slips it down and works it in little circles while Jamie writhes into his touch. The krampus’ tail is lashing wildly behind him, his back arched and his mismatched hands kneading Mako’s chest. Mako wishes fervently to pull Jamie up and get his mouth where his hand is, suck him off and taste when he comes, but from the chorus of sounds building in the other man’s throat, there’s not enough time for that. Sure enough, Jamie lets out a wail loud enough to wake the dead, clamping his legs firmly around Mako’s hips and pulsing around him as he comes.

He slows to a grind, and Mako keeps greedily stroking him with both hands, trying to prolong the sight of him so enraptured for as long as possible. Finally Jamie opens his eyes, panting hard, and the smiles he aims down at Mako is all teeth and tenderness.

“You’re so lovely,” Jamie says, still soft. Almost wistful. He strokes Mako’s bottom lip, his cheek, his sweaty brow. “Pretty boy.”

There are definitely tears in Mako’s eyes and they might be running down his face but he doesn’t care because he comes so hard he loses sight of the room around him, arching off the bed as it roars through him again and again in endless hungry waves that pull him under and leave him blissfully floating. He never wants to stop feeling like this, this ecstatic suspension, hazy and warm and soft.

It’s not until after he comes down from the blinding high of it that he realizes he’s squirted all over himself and Jamie and the sheets; he can’t remember the last time he’s done that, didn’t think he could anymore in all honesty.

He’s trembling all over, his breath coming and going in shallow, gasping bursts as he lies there. Jamison lifts off him gingerly with a sticky sound and a breathless giggle, the joints of his metal limbs creaking. “That was amazing,” he’s saying as Mako’s hearing returns over the dull thud of his pulse. “Crikey, what a mess! I was hoping I’d get you to go off all at once and did you ever— like a damn champagne cork popping, like fireworks that was!”

The sheets rustle and then Jamie’s got one of the corners pulled up so he can wipe at the splatter between Mako’s thighs, still cackling and muttering to himself. There’s a brief clatter at the bedside table— Jamie must have found the water bottle he keeps there, because in the next moment he’s holding it carefully to Mako’s lips, letting him take a few shaky sips before setting it back down and crawling back into the bed. Mako feels palms petting over his skin, and he can only whimper and fumble his hands toward the touch, reaching for Jamie hopefully. To his relief, the krampus comes into his arms without batting an eye, climbing up his belly and wrapping his own arms around Mako’s shoulders. The soft tufted end of his tail flicks up and brushes over Mako’s cheek, and he realizes they’re still damp with tears.

“Aww.” Jamie squirms further up the bed until he can cradle the bigger man against his chest, essentially turning Mako into the little spoon. “Sorry, mate, I was— I was too rough, huh?”

Mako turns and tucks his face against Jamison’s torso, grateful to have something to cling to, and shakes his head slowly. “Were perfect,” he manages, rolling onto his side and curling closer. “Hold me?”

He hears a faint intake of breath and feels the heartbeat under his cheek pick up, feels the arms around him tighten comfortingly. “No worries, darl.”


End file.
